The Soldier and the Scarf
by teabizarre
Summary: John Watson is in love with someone and Sherlock can't figure out with who. Oneshot; Johnlock.


**The Soldier and the Scarf**

Something was different.

Sherlock would posit 'girlfriend', but there was no woman as far as he could tell—no foreign hairs clinging to any of John's ugly cardigans, no whiff of perfume against his collar, no brush of lipstick in unlikely places (like his wrists, at the spot where the bone stood out most prominently beneath his skin), no looking politely sated after staying out too late and coming home with hairs on his cardigan, perfume in his hair and lipstick on his collar. But the signs were clearly there: fresh shirt, four days in a row now, and one of those days had been on a weekend; shaved, no nicks; a new pair of jeans; polished shoes; oft-shampooed hair.

So no new girlfriend yet, Sherlock deduced. They must still be courting.

But when Sherlock got home at one am after wandering the streets, John was home, fast asleep in the chair in front of the fire.

When Sherlock stormed into the apartment at four in the afternoon, bruised by Lestrade's idiotic imperviousness to his genius, John was there, making a sandwich, asking him if he wanted one.

When Sherlock sulked in the small hours of the morning, John brought around a mug of coffee with extra sugar and smiled before he left him to it.

When Sherlock made a ridiculous demand at a crime scene, or at Bart's lab, John would comply with only the quietest of sighs.

Something was different, Sherlock deduced—very different, more different than usual, _too_ different.

This time, John must _really_ be in love.

And Sherlock couldn't figure out with who.

* * *

What he needed, Sherlock surmised, watching John drink his coffee and manhandle the newspaper one morning, was data. His data was incomplete. Most days he only saw John for part of the day, therefore he only had part of the data.

He needed more data. Yes.

So when John folded up the paper, drained his cup and pulled on his jacket (the suede one, the brown suede one, the one only worn for the first three dates, the fourth if he was _really_ enamoured), Sherlock waited until he was almost out the door to say, 'I'll ride with you. I have to go to St Bart's anyway.'

John waited patiently for Sherlock to knot his scarf around his neck.

'Going to work on anything specific?' John asked, holding the door for him before following him down the short flight of stairs.

'Yes,' Sherlock said, suspicious. 'Why?' John's interest in his genius usually wavered whenever chemistry featured too prominently.

'No reason.' John smiled, a real smile, not the one he gave Mycroft when he mocked him (Mycroft either hadn't noticed or he liked it, and Sherlock had his suspicions about that). 'Want to have lunch? I'm only in until one.'

'Lunch?' Sherlock repeated. 'We don't usually have lunch.' Aside from when they were on a case, and then Sherlock only ever watched John eat; John knew this, surely.

John grimaced: his lips thinned, his eyes hardened, and a frown appeared, just a little one, a hitch of skin, no more.

Uh-oh. This was a facial expression Sherlock recognised because he specifically and alone seemed to inspire it.

'Right,' John said, but he didn't clear his throat—a good sign. 'Never mind, then.'

'Do you want company?' Sherlock asked, waiting for John to clamber into the cab ahead of him and watching him carefully. If he did, it meant he didn't already have company—when all the signs indicated that he should.

'I said never mind.' John frowned at his mobile. At this point Sherlock lost interest, because he'd already checked John's mobile and it had nothing unusual on it, though it seemed to have been purged of pornography—something John did periodically, especially when he'd met someone new.

Sherlock had considered just _asking_ John, but where was the fun in that?

He cast his flatmate a sidelong look that he didn't see because he was ducking his head watching the buildings and busy streets slip past them. His hair was so clean it was _shiny_.

Something was different, Sherlock thought, watching as the scenery repeated itself in minute changes in John's face.

Something was _new_.

* * *

After doubling back to the clinic where John helped out, Sherlock spent the morning sifting around just outside the line of his flatmate's vision. He'd acquired a clipboard and an official-looking walk, and nobody paid him much attention. Sometimes it helped that nearly everyone was an idiot.

Sherlock observed John carefully, but there were no undue hold-ups in the queues outside his office, no more-than-just-friendly smiles or looks between him and patients or nurses or other doctors, and no dallying around after his shift had ended. He went straight outside, bought a sandwich from a cart, and ambled slowly up the street toward a bus stop. Halfway there something in a shop window distracted him and he disappeared inside. Five minutes later he was back, carrying a small brown bag.

Sherlock waited until John had boarded the bus before he tucked inside to snoop. The shop was about the size of a large bathroom and specialised in a nuclear array of knitwear. That explained it: John was a temple prostitute for yarn creations.

Sulking now, Sherlock set off for St Bart's, where he spent the rest of the day ignoring Molly's awkward smiles and unsteady advances and staring into a microscope, not seeing anything.

Something was new, he thought, picking away at the evidence until all the scabs were bleeding. _Obvious_. But what?

But _who_?

* * *

It was past ten o'clock when Sherlock stomped into the apartment. John was stretched out on his favourite armchair in front of the telly, with his legs crossed at the ankles and his head on his chest, snoring lightly. Sherlock watched him for a few moments, registering the changes their few hours' separation had wrought. He'd always thought of John as being solidly predictable—not altogether a bad thing, in his estimation; John's routines and habits were often the only fixed points in Sherlock's day—but now he was beginning to wonder if he really knew John as well as he'd always thought.

He had always thought that there was more to John than met the eye, but he'd also always thought he had a fair grasp of just what exactly lay beneath the surface.

Sherlock used John's doze to rifle through his mail (bills and advertisements), check the sink (which was the same as he'd left it that morning, with the addition of another mug and a cereal bowl), and was mid-way through checking John's laptop (he'd even scrutinised the dratted _blog_) when John started awake with a sticky yawn and a bone-cracking stretch.

'Oh, you're back,' John said, stifling another yawn. He scratched his eyes and blinked slowly into consciousness, adjusting his bottom on the armchair. 'What's the time?'

'Bed time,' Sherlock said curtly, and left him to it. He was more than a little miffed and far too clever to try to make sense of _why_. He fell into bed fully clothed, but a sock-muffled scuffle told him that John had followed him into his room.

'Are you alright?' John asked. Not the dutiful kind of inquiry he sometimes lodged when Sherlock's behaviour drove him past the realm of exasperation and into annoyance—violent violin playing at three am, for example, or more severed body parts than usual in the fridge—but the genuine, 'are you on the verge of a relapse?' concern that made Sherlock so angry he was _grateful_ John's sister was a raging alcoholic, because otherwise John would have ended up staying with her and not with him at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock dug himself deeper into his covers, childishly turning his head away.

A clattering sigh. 'Sherlock? Did something happen?'

Sherlock wrung himself off the bed and into a standing position. 'Why?' he challenged.

John shrugged. 'You've been acting strange...er than usual,' he clarified, unapologetically.

'What, because I didn't want to have _lunch_ with you?' Sherlock mocked, striding out of the room and picking up his violin. He plucked irritably at the strings.

'Yes, what was that all about?' John had followed him and stood with his hands balled in neat little fists—always the bloody soldier. 'The way you say it makes it sound like it was the most insane request in the-'

'Did it occur to you that I have better things to do than watch you _glut_ yourself, John? I'm quite busy and important, you see, and it's not my fault you don't have anyone else to have lunch with.'

Sherlock knew it was the wrong thing to say exactly the moment he said it, largely because John's face blanched ever-so-slightly beneath the five o'clock shadow and his facial expression froze as it always did when he was the angriest, or the saddest, or the most frightened.

'Hmm,' John said; the humourless smile was front and centre. 'Isn't it?'

Then he cleared his throat and walked away, and a few seconds later Sherlock heard his bedroom door slam shut.

Sherlock's mouth was very dry as he turned his back on his flatmate's departure. He tucked the violin in tight under his chin and put the bow to the string.

You could not hear his trembling in the melody.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock awoke to an empty flat. He'd slept in, having warbled pointedly on his violin until two am, but nonetheless was surprised to find the apartment quiet, John's cup in the sink and his keys and jacket (the green Boer War looking one) gone. There wasn't even any evidence of breakfast in the kitchen. Sherlock pitied John's patients; he was not a kind man on an empty stomach.

For a while Sherlock entertained the empty apartment with his violin, keeping an eye on the street below, but his energy buzzed beyond the constraints of harmony and he abandoned the instrument. He paced around, upsetting stacks of books and papers, kicking at John's slippers in passing and fixedly staring at the fridge's contents before closing it and starting all over again, until he wore himself out and collapsed onto the sofa, wrapping himself into a tight, foetal ball.

It was hateful, this pall that settled over inanimate objects and empty spaces in the wake of arguments, he thought. His childhood was pockmarked with a few such episodes, when Daddy had slammed the door and Mummy refused rooms where his scent lingered, at least until he returned.

Sherlock grew stock still, eyes roving over the ceiling beyond which John's bedroom lay.

It should have occurred to him sooner, he knew, but John's bedroom was at the periphery of their shared life, and until quite recently Sherlock had thought his grasp of that life was thorough. He'd never had any reason to doubt it, until now; had never suspected secrets that weren't exposed by John's tedious habits or his Internet activities.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and scrutinised the unremarkable ceiling for five seconds. In a flurry of long limbs and blue silk he bucked off the couch and threw himself into the hall and up the stairs. When he reached the door (which stood ajar) he hesitated; there was something forbidden about this, more forbidden even than flicking through the detritus of John's daily life on a regular basis, which he did as a matter of course.

John wouldn't like it, Sherlock thought, the idea of which Sherlock found _he_ liked. He pushed the door open, revealing an ordinary-looking bedroom. There was a neatly-made double bed with two bedside tables but only one lamp, on the right-hand side of course; a pair of navy curtains, drawn shut, but fluttering in the cold breeze; an armchair in front of the window which was rarely sat on, and from which yesterday's shirt hung; an unadorned dresser on the opposite wall with a bathroom scale and a pair of shoes beneath it; and a small table right next to the door, on which stood a brown paper bag. Behind it a phone charger dangled from the outlet.

Sherlock remembered the bag from the day before and picked it up, testing its weight before popping it apart with two long fingers. Inside was a woolly scarf, dark blue, almost the same colour as the curtains. He puzzled: John never wore scarves. The only person of their mutual acquaintance who wore scarves was—oh, _obvious_. The scarf was for her; it _must_ be for her, this new person Sherlock couldn't find.

Well, tough luck, Sherlock decided petulantly—he was taking it. He threaded it around his throat and went about rifling through the bedroom. He inhaled deeply as he searched, sifting through the familiar smells of his flatmate (some generic masculine cologne; shaving cream; fabric softener) but there was nothing that oughtn't be there, odour or otherwise, not even a dirty magazine under the mattress or a stray condom in the wardrobe.

This was a worrying turn of events. Sherlock had no choice but to deduce three things:

John had met someone.

He liked this person more than the others.

John was keeping this person a secret from him.

Feeling unaccountably glum, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed, scanning John's ceiling, but it revealed as little as the rest of the room.

* * *

He must have dozed off because the next moment John was shaking him awake and the light was different.

While Sherlock rubbed his eyes, John crossed his arms and frowned at him.

'Are you on something?' he asked evenly.

'What? No!' Sherlock gathered his robe about him with as much dignity as he could.

'Then why are you asleep, in my bedroom, on my bed?'

'You're always in _my_ room,' Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed, rubbing at his left eyebrow with two fingers, eyes closed.

'Sherlock-' He stopped himself, took a breath, ground his teeth, opened his eyes. 'Just tell me, whatever it is. Just tell me, please, so we can sort this out.'

Sherlock bounced off the bed and threw himself into the armchair, kicking his long legs out in front of him and steepling his fingers.

'Okay,' he said. 'Let's talk.'

John sat down on the edge of his bed, a corner away from him. When he noticed that Sherlock was wearing the scarf he looked quite consternated.

'That's-'

'Yes,' Sherlock interrupted him, tugging at the scarf. 'You've met someone, someone you really like, and I can tell by this scarf.'

John gaped, a guilty blush settling on his face.

'So?' Sherlock asked. 'Who is it? Who are you hiding from me?'

'What?' John huffed, half-looking like he wanted to laugh. Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him to convey just how serious this was.

'You heard me. Who is she? I know you didn't meet her at work, but you never seem to go anywhere else and I know you didn't meet her on the Internet because I've checked there, too. You must have met her on the bus, then, because that's the one place I didn't follow you. That's why you went into the shop before you boarded the bus—but she wasn't on it, not yesterday.'

'I have _no idea_-' John started, but Sherlock interrupted him once more.

'I should have seen it sooner. The new clothes, the shiny hair—and now this.' He tugged at the scarf again. 'Granted it's nontraditional, as far as courting gifts go, but it's intimate because it's something one would wear often. It's expensive—angora yarn, probably knit up by some up-and-coming vegan designer from India, and it's the same colour as your curtains and your bedspread—no explanation needed there, though I'll give it anyway: you wanted this person in your bedroom—in fact you've probably already pictured them here.

'So?' He wove his fingers together and watched as emotions played out on John's face—very subtle, like a snake flicking through water. 'Who is it? Who did you buy the scarf for?'

John had dropped his eyes to his hands, which were curled into fists in his lap. He half-shook his head to himself, stood, and cleared his throat. When he glanced up, his eyes were bright with moisture.

'I bought the scarf for you,' John said. With a terse smile, he turned around and left. A few moments later the front door slammed shut.

_Oh_, Sherlock thought, his mouth uncomfortably dry. _Obvious_.

* * *

John did not come back.

Twilight wore into evening, and then it was midnight, and then it was dawn: cold and dreary and wet with rain, great wide puddles of water pooling on sidewalks and gushing down gutters. Every time a car slashed through the torrent Sherlock's body would freeze in anticipation, but no cab slowed down, no front door opened, there were no flat footfalls on the stairs, no tinkle of keys, no weary sigh. The telly did not blip on, the fridge door did not pop open, the kettle didn't boil.

Sherlock was at a loss. He was typically the one out the door, the one who came back from unexplained absences after hours like nothing had happened, to find John there, measured and dependable, tapping away at his laptop or scrubbing melted plastic from the table or talking with Mrs Hudson while she baked. The reversal was unsettling.

Sherlock began to feel annoyed. When he had showered and dressed and John still wasn't there, he sent the first text (_Where are you? S._)

When eight am had passed with no sign of his flatmate, he texted him again. (_Where are you? S._)

At nine he didn't text because John was being uncannily selfish.

At nine fifteen he could not find the coffee, which necessitated another text, but he kept it short. (_Where's the coffee?_)

By ten, two more texts had been sent to enquire about the previous texts, which had gone unanswered. (_I asked where you are. S. Did you get my texts? S._)

At half-past ten he tried calling, but John did not pick up. He left no voice message.

By eleven he'd left one, in case his number was blocked. (_It's Sherlock. Where are you? It's eleven. Call me._) At this point his mobile's battery died; anxiously he plugged it in and willed it to charge so he could go looking for John.

_Are you alright? S._

_ Did you try to call? My battery died. S._

For a half hour he distracted himself by flaying sounds from his violin, but Mrs Hudson shouted at him to stop. He whiled away five minutes searching her flat, but John hadn't been there in two days. The shoe she threw at him only narrowly missed his head.

It was ten past twelve when he picked up his mobile again.

_Let's have lunch. S._

There was no response. This was very ungracious behaviour indeed, Sherlock thought, and decided to resume ignoring John, but he felt bad and after throwing a pillow across the room sent another text, this one's tone reconciliatory.

_I said let's have lunch. 13:00. 221B. I'm cooking. S._

Well, that wasn't technically true, but he'd seen a lasagna in Mrs Hudson's fridge that would do nicely, and was just making the last adjustments to his plan of actually _getting_ it when his mobile shrilled.

It was a text from John.

_ Why?_

Sherlock's delight at getting a response was somewhat diminished by its content. Why? Well, why not?

No, that wouldn't do. John wanted a reason... Sentiment. Sherlock sighed.

_I don't have anyone else to have lunch with. S._

There. That was honest.

But twenty minutes passed and there was no reply.

Pacing, eyes perpetually on the windows, Sherlock picked up his mobile again.

_Because I need you to come back. S._

A further five minutes elapsed. By this time Sherlock had rolled into a ball again, facing the back of the couch, straining now not to hear John _not_ arriving; the absence of sound was suddenly overwhelming.

_I absolutely and unequivocally need you to come back, John. S._

There was a rustle of fabric, and then John said, 'Why?'

Sherlock froze for a second before he flipped over on the couch. John stood in the door, looking crumpled and dishevelled. His clothes were wet with rain and the lines around his mouth looked deeper than usual. There were bags under his eyes and his hair stuck up on one side of his head.

_Harry's_, Sherlock thought.

'I didn't hear you come up,' he said instead, after an awkward moment—but then his moments generally were, as a rule. Not so much with John, though, he'd noticed. He could be himself with John.

'I can be quiet.' John said this dispassionately. 'I was a-'

'Soldier,' Sherlock finished.

John nodded, bounced on his heels once, and grimaced.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said. John's brow furrowed.

'What for?'

'The scarf.' Sherlock straightened it around his throat. 'It's very nice.'

John looked uncomfortable. 'Right.'

A few more strained seconds ticked past before either spoke, and then they did so simultaneously.

'I'll just get the lasagna-' Sherlock started, jerking in the direction of the door.

'I'll go as soon as I've packed,' John said, angling toward the stairs.

'Go?' Sherlock's confusion halted John on the threshold.

His flatmate cleared his throat. 'Yes,' he said, not looking at him—not looking at anything, really.

'Go where? You're not—leaving?'

John's smile was sad and brief. 'I can't stay.' He picked at the doorframe.

'Is this about what I said yesterday? About the scarf?' Sherlock's voice had gone hoarse around the edges. 'I was just-'

'You were right.' Pick, pick, pick. John gave Sherlock another half smile. 'Of course you were right. I'm sorry,' he added, 'I never meant-' He cleared his throat. 'I'll just...'

Sherlock listened to him jog up the stairs. His heart was beating very fast and his mouth was very dry. He felt a disorientated tingle in his fingertips. The only other time he felt like this was when he was on the verge of closing a case but a last crucial detail eluded him.

_Think_, he urged his bewildered brain. John was packing. John was leaving. _Think_. John was going to go away. What if John never came back?

He sprinted up the stairs after him. John was surprised to see him; too surprised to react when Sherlock shoved the bag John was trying to pack into a corner and stood, breathing hard, blocking the entrance.

'Sherlock-' John started, but Sherlock held up a hand. A moment's thinking gave him the answer. He had all the data now; it wasn't that hard, after all. _Sentiment_.

He half-stepped out of the room and checked the stairs, but they were empty. He stepped back in and closed the door behind him. Unconsciously he wiped his hands on his jacket; they were suddenly sweaty. Then he turned to face John.

'What...'

Sherlock closed the distance between them with two strides and stooped in for a kiss. It was confusing and clumsy: he missed John's mouth and ended up kissing a stubbly dimple, but then he found John's lips and just kept going, ignoring John's half-hearted protestations.

He had no idea what he was doing, but the mechanics didn't seem all that complicated. When John tried to pull away Sherlock brought his mouth back to his, pushing his hand into John's hair (soft), pressing his face right into John's stubble (hard), testing the boundaries of John's lips (chafed), a dozen new feelings popping into his brain all at once (like how John's body felt this way, what John's lips tasted like, what it felt like to have John's right hand on his neck and his left curled just above his hip).

But then John pushed him back forcefully, using both hands flat on his chest. Sherlock tried to get around them but John was firm and breathless.

'Sherlock—wait, stop.'

They stood staring at each other, breathing into each other's space. Sherlock's lips felt raw, and suddenly very empty.

'Don't you like it?' he asked, puzzled. Wasn't this what John had wanted? 'If it's my technique,' he conceded, 'I can always-'

'Why did you do that, Sherlock? Why?' John demanded. He did not sound at all pleased—he sounded angry.

'Isn't it what you wanted?'

John laughed humourlessly. 'Isn't it what I wanted?' he repeated. He snatched the bag off the floor, threw it on the bed and started pulling open drawers.

'Why are you packing? This is absurd!' Sherlock railed.

'_This_ is absurd?' John's shoulders squared and he stabbed an accusatory finger at him. 'You—you _snog_ me so I won't leave because you're a lunatic but _this_ is absurd?'

He shook his head and stuffed a fistful of clothes into the bag.

'_I thought it's what you wanted!_' Sherlock returned.

John actually went 'Argh!' 'I don't want you to have feelings for me because I want you to, I want you to have feelings for me period!'

'Feelings!' Sherlock spat, shaking his fingers through his hair in frustration. 'What is it with people and _feelings_?! Isn't it enough for you to know that I want you to stay?'

'You only want me to stay because you don't want things to change,' John muttered, zipping up the bag and pulling out a suitcase from under the bed.

'Well of course not!' Sherlock grabbed the bag and went for the zipper. 'Why would I? Things-' (John tried to wrestle the bag out of his hands) '-are perfect-' (John gave a huge tug that almost sent them both toppling) '-just the way they-' (Sherlock bit John's hand and he let go with a swear word) 'are!'

The zipper tore open and a wad of cable-knit sweater popped out.

They stared at each other, panting, John sprawled in the space between the bed, the dresser and the wall, Sherlock opposite him, near the door.

'Well then,' Sherlock said, clearing his throat and trying to restrain his breathing. He brushed his hair from his eyes and slapped his hands together. 'That settles it. Oh, and I'm taking this,' he added, grabbing the empty suitcase before John could get up off the floor.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the couch, ankles crossed, scanning the ceiling above with narrowed eyes. He had a book open on his chest that he could pretend to read, if John decided to come down, but it was past nine pm and so far he had had no reason to.

He glanced at the wall clock again, then back at the ceiling.

After he took the suitcase and trotted downstairs, there had been a lot of commotion above—the door slamming, feet stomping, the dresser rattling on the floor as John presumably went about unpacking. But after about a half-hour and a scrape silence had fallen and remained unbroken as the rest of London went about getting home, having dinner and going to bed.

At one point Sherlock had warmed a square of lasagna, overheating it so the smell lay thick and oily over the flat like a tideline, but John had not reappeared.

Then Sherlock had switched on the telly to John's favourite show and left the volume up for five minutes, but John did not come marching down the stairs, sullen but a little less unyielding, to make tea or to have a beer or to fetch his laptop, which was hibernating on the desk they shared.

Sherlock was beginning to despair of the room upstairs in general. It was a nuisance. It would have been far better had there been only one bedroom; it would have been harder for John to hide himself this way, if they had equal access to every space.

In fact, it would have to go. Sherlock couldn't have John lock himself in his bedroom to avoid him; that would be little better than his moving out. He needed to be here, downstairs, within sight, within hearing; reading or writing or eating beans straight from the can or frowning at whatever wax deposit he dug out from his ears or channel hopping when commercials came on.

It was the only acceptable solution, as far as Sherlock could see, and up the stairs he went to tell his flatmate so.

He listened before he knocked, but there was no response so he let himself in.

The bedroom was dark. A crack of light shone between the curtains and fell in a white line across the bed. John was asleep on the right side, one foot sticking out from beneath the covers. There was a hole in his sock. He slept on his back, his right arm flung over his head and his mouth slightly open. His breathing was slow and rhythmic.

Sherlock considered shaking him awake to hammer out all the details and was on his way to do so when he reconsidered and dropped his hand to his side.

It could probably wait until the morning, he decided, and shook his dressing gown from his shoulders.

The left side of the bed was cold. Sherlock slid in beside John carefully, then lay stock still, staring at the ceiling.

John wouldn't like this, Sherlock decided.

Smiling at the dark, he turned onto his side and went to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock's mind jumped into consciousness like it jumped into everything else: excitedly, feet first. He cracked his toes and craned his neck, spilling onto his back in a mess of too-long limbs and crumpled sinews—to find John sitting up beside him, watching him, arms crossed and frowning.

'Morning,' John said. 'Why are you in my bed?'

Sherlock kicked out his legs, stifling a yawn. 'Making sure you don't sneak out while I'm asleep, obviously.'

'Obviously,' John repeated to himself. He dropped his head into both hands and rubbed his face vigorously.

'You'd better get used to it,' Sherlock pointed out, not unreasonably.

'Oh I have, have I?' John threw the covers off himself and snatched up his dressing gown, but not before Sherlock had got an egregious glimpse of pale stomach (squishy) and a frown of buttcrack and the dimple above it (small) (the dimple; the buttcrack was average for someone's John's height and weight).

'Yes.' Sherlock rubbed his eyes. 'Mrs Hudson needs this room, so we'll have to share. There isn't enough space for two beds in my bedroom.' He stared at John matter-of-factly.

'Right. Of course.' John fastened the dressing gown around his midriff.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock asked, wondering if he'd have to tackle John and physically restrain him. He wasn't altogether averse to the idea.

'Coffee. Do you want some?' John asked, pausing in the door.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John's eyebrows were raised in a sort of 'I'm waiting' way.

'Thank you,' Sherlock said suspiciously. John smiled and started down the stairs.

Sherlock waited, listening, but John didn't seem to be making a break for the door, and a few minutes later he returned with two steaming mugs.

'So you're okay with the room share?' Sherlock asked casually, sitting crossed leg on the bed. John pulled the curtains open to an overcast day.

'Guess I'll have to be.'

'Hmm,' Sherlock went, watching John from the corners of his eyes as he settled on the armchair and blew on his coffee.

'So you've decided to stay,' he said, after a few moments had passed, and John still showed no signs of being angry or threatening to pack his bags or—worst—discuss _feelings_.

'Hmm?' John loomed out of his own thoughts. 'Oh. Yes.'

'May I ask why?' Sherlock enquired.

John smiled. 'Why do _you_ want me to stay?' he returned.

'I've told you,' Sherlock grumbled. 'I need you to stay.'

'Why?'

'Why does someone generally need someone else to stay, John?' Sherlock countered.

'Because they don't know where the coffee is?'

Sherlock scowled.

'It's the scarf, actually,' John said, taking pity. He pointed at Sherlock.

'The scarf?'

'You're still wearing it.'

'It's cold,' Sherlock said testily.

'Hmm.' John smiled again and drained his mug. 'Finished?' he asked, coming round the bed and holding out his hand for Sherlock's mug.

Sherlock handed it over without protest. John smiled again and, unexpectedly, dropped a kiss on Sherlock's startled mouth. He tasted like warm sleep and coffee.

'I need a shower,' he said. 'I'm in until ten.'

'It's Saturday!' Sherlock complained, watching John disappear down the landing.

'Sarah asked,' came his reply. 'Oh, and Sherlock?' His head popped into the room.

'Yes?' Sherlock punched his pillow and resettled, peering at John down the length of his body and threading his fingers through each other on his stomach.

'Don't follow me to work again.'

''Course not.' Sherlock smiled. John smiled back and a few moments later Sherlock heard the bathroom door click shut, and a moment after that the water gurgled in the pipes.

Sherlock sighed, fingering his scarf. If he skipped showering, it would only take him seven minutes to be fully dressed and out of the door. He'd have to be more careful, for a while at least, but if he planned it just right, John would never know.

_Presently_ Sherlock had all the data, but that would change on a day-to-day basis. Sherlock figured it only made sense to keep track of the data.

Yes.

* * *

A/N: This is my first attempt at Sherlock BBC fanfiction. Thank you for reading and please review :)


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